Rage Against the Dying: A Thriller [NOOK Book]

Overview

You have never met an (ex) FBI agent like Brigid Quinn

"Keeping secrets, telling lies, they require the same skill. Both become a habit, almost an addiction, that's hard to break even with the people closest to you, out of the business. For example, they say never trust a woman who tells you her age; if she can't keep that secret, she can't...

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This Book

Overview

You have never met an (ex) FBI agent like Brigid Quinn

"Keeping secrets, telling lies, they require the same skill. Both become a habit, almost an addiction, that's hard to break even with the people closest to you, out of the business. For example, they say never trust a woman who tells you her age; if she can't keep that secret, she can't keep yours. I'm fifty-nine."

Brigid Quinn's experiences in hunting sexual predators for the FBI have left her with memories she wishes she didn't have and lethal skills she hopes never to need again. Having been pushed into early retirement by events she thinks she's put firmly behind her, Brigid keeps telling herself she is settling down nicely in Tucson with a wonderful new husband, Carlo, and their dogs.

But the past intervenes when a man named Floyd Lynch confesses to the worst unsolved case of Brigid's career--the disappearance and presumed murder of her young protégée, Jessica. Floyd knows things about that terrible night that were never made public, and offers to lead the cops to Jessica's body in return for a plea bargain.

It should finally be the end of a dark chapter in Brigid's life. Except…the new FBI agent on the case, Laura Coleman, thinks the confession is fake, and Brigid finds she cannot walk away from violence and retribution after all, no matter what the cost.

With a fiercely original and compelling voice, Becky Masterman's Rage Against the Dying marks the heart-stopping debut of a brilliant new thriller writer.

What People Are Saying

From the Publisher

"One of the most memorable FBI agents since Clarice Starling as well as a killer debut thriller."

—Publishers Weekly (starred)

“Brigid is a marvelous character, and her skills are fearsome for someone her age… fans of Lisa Gardner and Tess Gerritsen will love this book.” —Booklist

"A scorching, humane first novel that reads as if Masterman’s been sitting for a long time on some truly ugly secrets." —Kirkus Reviews

"Wow. An absolute pleasure. Chilling, smart...and what a voice she has."—Gillian Flynn, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Gone Girl

"First time is the charm for Masterman's masterful debut, featuring 59-year-old retired FBI Agent Brigid Quinn, still tough, still determined, and still smarting to catch that one killer who got away. An author to watch. A thriller that must be read."—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Catch Me and Love You More

"Blown away. What else can I tell you? Brigid Quinn is a heroine to cheer for, and Masterman writes like an angel who has seen far too many ungodly things.”—Linwood Barclay, author of the New York Times bestseller No Time for Goodbye

"Rage Against the Dying is the kind of thriller that will keep you up long past your bedtime, and Brigid Quinn is the kind of FBI agent you have never met before, but will want to meet again!" —Peter Robinson, Edgar and Arthur Ellis-winning author of the New York Times bestseller, Before the Poison

Editorial Reviews

The Washington Post
- Patrick Anderson

The search for the serial killer is nicely plotted. Masterman had me suspecting just about everyone…Anyone who appreciates graceful, thoughtful, suspenseful writing will be glad to meet sexy, tough, conflicted and compassionate Brigid Quinn. When the nominations are made for the best crime-novel debut of the year, we should be hearing her name again.

The New York Times
- Janet Maslin

…[a] pulse-quickening debut thriller…Brigid invokes Hannibal Lecter and The Silence of the Lambs as she taunts one prime suspect. It's a fair comparison for Ms. Masterman to make, given both books' perverse crimes, mercifully understated detail and capacity to send more chills than thrills. And, like The Silence of the Lambs, Rage Against the Dying becomes the story of a heroine in peril, even though she's a tough woman very skilled in the arts of self-defense. Brigid…is a character who'll be more than welcome if Ms. Masterman turns her scorching debut into a running series.

Publishers Weekly

Resist any temptation to bail after the creepy prologue—a sexual predator’s-eye-view of the woman he’s about to attack—because then you’ll miss one of the most memorable FBI agents since Clarice Starling as well as a killer debut thriller. At 59, Brigid Quinn has officially closed the book on a legendary—and controversial—Bureau career, including years undercover, and is struggling to forget the horrors that still haunt her as a newlywed in a suburb north of Tucson, Ariz. Then the authorities arrest trucker Floyd Lynch, who claims to be the Route 66 Killer—the one notorious homicide case she didn’t close, and which seven years earlier claimed the life of her protégée, rookie undercover agent Jessica Robertson. But some things just don’t add up to either young FBI agent Laura Coleman or Quinn. The steely veteran finds herself thrust back into a nightmare that threatens to shatter her new life—if it doesn’t get her killed. First-time novelist Masterman, acquisitions editor for a press specializing in forensic medical textbooks, ratchets up the suspense with a secondary plot it would be criminal to reveal, stumbling only when it comes to Quinn’s less than convincing domestic bliss with a widowed former priest turned college professor and his pair of pugs. Agent: Helen Heller, the Helen Heller Agency. (Mar.)

From the Publisher

“Pulse-quickening…scorching… invigorating… In one final demonstration that she has learned the lessons of crime fiction well, Ms. Masterman hides important evidence in the unlikeliest place: within plain sight. But this book is too cleverly manipulative for readers to get ahead of Brigid in making such startling discoveries.” —Janet Maslin, The New York Times

"Wow. An absolute pleasure. Chilling, smart...and what a voice she has."—Gillian Flynn, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Gone Girl

“Masterman lives up to her name in this masterly combination of compelling character and plot to keep the pages turning.” —Library Journal (starred review)

"One of the most memorable FBI agents since Clarice Starling as well as a killer debut thriller."—Publishers Weekly Pick of the week (starred review)

“Brigid is a marvelous character, and her skills are fearsome for someone her age… fans of Lisa Gardner and Tess Gerritsen will love this book.” —Booklist

"A scorching, humane first novel that reads as if Masterman’s been sitting for a long time on some truly ugly secrets." —Kirkus Reviews

"First time is the charm for Masterman's masterful debut, featuring 59-year-old retired FBI Agent Brigid Quinn, still tough, still determined, and still smarting to catch that one killer who got away. An author to watch. A thriller that must be read."—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Catch Me and Love You More

"Blown away. What else can I tell you? Brigid Quinn is a heroine to cheer for, and Masterman writes like an angel who has seen far too many ungodly things.”—Linwood Barclay, author of the New York Times bestseller No Time for Goodbye

"Rage Against the Dying is the kind of thriller that will keep you up long past your bedtime, and Brigid Quinn is the kind of FBI agent you have never met before, but will want to meet again!" —Peter Robinson, Edgar and Arthur Ellis-winning author of the New York Times bestseller, Before the Poison

Library Journal

Yes, this debut thriller has a fast-paced, action-filled plot littered with serial killers and their victims. Yes, its portrayal of FBI procedures resonates with authenticity, and the romantic subplot is engaging. But, most of all, it is the savvy heroine/narrator, Brigid Quinn, who will capture the reader’s attention. Brigid is a 59-year-old retired FBI agent with a bad back, a history of alcohol abuse, and a questionable officer-involved shooting in her past. Yet she’s made a new life for herself in the outskirts of Tucson by marrying widowed philosophy professor and former priest Carlo DiForenza. She’s taken up cooking and gardening and has come to love twilight strolls with her new husband and their two rambunctious pugs. However, when the loose ends of an old unsolved case begin to intrude on her idyllic life, Brigid quickly finds herself caught up in the intrigue despite her desperate desire to shield Carlo from the reality of her past.

Verdict Masterman lives up to her name in this masterly combination of compelling character and plot to keep the pages turning. And readers of a certain age will love her middle-aged protagonist. [Library marketing; Minotaur 1st Edition Selection.]—Nancy McNicol, Hamden P.L., CT

Kirkus Reviews

Masterman's gangbusters debut sets a retired FBI agent who thinks she's seen it all against a serial killer who provides new horrors she's never seen. Before shooting an unarmed suspect back in Georgia sent her into early retirement in Tucson, Brigid Quinn had earned a reputation as a brave sex-crimes undercover agent and a skilled investigator. Now that she's living the good life with her bridegroom, Carlos DiForenza, a priest turned professor, she thinks that's all behind her, from the adrenaline rushes to the scandal. But she couldn't be more wrong. When long-haul trucker Floyd Lynch confesses to being the Route 66 killer who killed eight women over a dozen years--the eighth of them being Jessica Robertson, who'd been working as bait under Brigid's supervision--Laura Coleman, a Tucson FBI agent who's always admired Brigid, shares her suspicion that Lynch's confession is bogus and asks Brigid to work the case with her. There are only three complications: Brigid isn't entitled to work any cases anymore; Coleman disappears shortly after getting eased off the case herself; and Brigid shortly has her hands full covering up her own killing of murderous rapist Gerald Peasil. Readers who can accept the coincidence of two sex killers sharing the same zip code and Brigid's unconvincing explanation of why she doesn't just report Peasil's death, which would manifestly be covered by a self-defense plea, are in for a ride as thrilling as they can find outside the pages of Jeffery Deaver (who's regularly invoked here), in the company of a heroine whose cleareyed disillusionment gives each wisecrack a trembling sense of mortality. A scorching, humane first novel that reads as if Masterman's been sitting for a long time on some truly ugly secrets.

Related Subjects

Meet the Author

BECKY MASTERMAN, who was an acquisitions editor for a press specializing in medical textbooks for forensic examiners and law enforcement, received her M.A. in creative writing from Florida Atlantic University. Her debut thriller, Rage Against the Dying, was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best First Novel, the CWA Gold Dagger Award for Best Crime Novel of 2013, as well as the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony awards. Becky lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband.

BECKY MASTERMAN, who was an acquisitions editor for a press specializing in medical textbooks for forensic examiners and law enforcement, received her M.A. in creative writing from Florida Atlantic University. Her debut thriller, Rage Against the Dying, was a finalist for the Edgar Award for Best First Novel, the CWA Gold Dagger Award for Best Crime Novel of 2013, as well as the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony awards. Becky lives in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband.

Read an Excerpt

One

Ten days earlier …
I’ve sometimes regretted the women I’ve been.
There have been so many: daughter, sister, cop, tough broad, several kinds of whore, jilted lover, ideal wife, heroine, killer. I’ll provide the truth of them all, inasmuch as I’m capable of telling the truth. Keeping secrets, telling lies, they require the same skill. Both become a habit, almost an addiction, that’s hard to break even with the people closest to you, out of the business. For example, they say never trust a woman who tells you her age; if she can’t keep that secret, she can’t keep yours.
I’m fifty-nine.
When I joined the FBI there weren’t many female special agents and the Bureau took advantage of that. A five-foot-three-inch natural blond with a preteen cheerleader’s body comes in handy for many investigations, so they were willing to waive the height requirement. For a good chunk of my career I worked undercover, mostly acting as bait for human traffickers and sexual predators crossing state or international lines.
I did the undercover work for nine years. That’s about five years longer than usual before agents burn out or lose their families. Because I never married or had children I might have done more time if it hadn’t been for the accident that necessitated fusing several vertebrae. It could have been worse; you should have seen what happened to the horse.
The surgery made problematic many job requirements—leaping across rooftops … dodging knife thrusts … lap dancing. I could have taken disability but couldn’t see what life would look like outside the Bureau, so the second half of my career was spent in Investigations. Then I retired.
No, that’s not the whole truth. Toward the end I was having a little difficulty making decisions. Specifically, a couple of years ago I killed an unarmed perp near Turnerville, Georgia. Contrary to what you see in movies, FBI special agents seldom use deadly force. It causes the Bureau embarrassment. Look at Waco, or Ruby Ridge. As for the agents, they’re not trusted so much anymore and the defense can use it against them in court, paint them as a rogue who might plant evidence or slant the facts to fit a case.
There was an investigation by our internal affairs group, the Office of Professional Responsibility, which cleared me with a decision of suicide by cop. The civil suit by the relatives of the guy I shot took longer and was more expensive. That’s another thing you don’t see in the movies, that the evil serial killer has a large extended family, including a sister with a limp who teaches special needs children and who testifies that her scumbag brother is the sweetest person who ever lived.
The family claimed I shot him because I was afraid he wouldn’t get convicted. They lost, but it left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. By that time my career was over and they reassigned me to the field substation in Tucson, which everyone told me was a lovely place but that felt a lot like Siberia, only hot. I hated the agent in charge and lasted a little less than seventeen months before opting for retirement, which is what they were hoping for in the first place.
Now that’s the whole truth. Mostly.
For a year I gave retirement my best shot. I joined a book club, but the other women started ignoring me when they found out I never read the book. I tried yoga at the advice of a therapist who said it would help my “anger issues” but was kicked out by the Bikram instructor after she wouldn’t let me drink water in a humid room with a temperature of one hundred degrees. I’m the one with anger issues? Namaste, my ass.
I kept going to the gym every other day to at least stay in shape, which had always been pretty good, and absolutely necessary given the work I did. I had to be able to improvise, to be flexible. I had taken special ops training from a Navy SEAL named Baxter. That was his first name. I can’t remember his last. We were very close and he was wise, for a trained killer. Whenever I picture Black Ops Baxter he’s cracking crass jokes about teaching me to use my cleavage as a weapon. He’s dead now, Baxter is.
Come to think of it, like the kid in that movie, I might know more dead people than live ones.
But back to my retirement: it felt like I was still undercover, temporarily posing as a Southwestern Woman of a Certain Age. If anyone asked me what I did for my work, I told them I investigated copyright infringements. That always killed the conversation because everyone has copied a video at some point.
I’m still gifted at disappearing into whatever environment I encounter, fading into the background, happy to succeed at what other women my age dread.
That’s who I am, and that’s what I hid from my next-door neighbors, from my beloved new husband, and sometimes from myself. No one likes a woman who knows how to kill with her bare hands.
As I said, retirement didn’t work out that well except for, also at the advice of my therapist, auditing a class on Buddhism at the university. That’s where I met the Perfesser. And shortly thereafter stopped seeing the therapist.
Mutual attraction was fairly immediate. During the first lecture I watched the intense Dr. Carlo DiForenza pacing back and forth in front of the class lecturing like a caged tiger who had eaten the Dalai Lama. In the middle of Carlo’s review of the cyclical nature of karma, one of the girls, wearing a tube top that squeezed her out the top like toothpaste, pressed her elbows together and said, “Oh, you mean, like, ‘wherever you go, there you are.’” The professor’s pacing stopped and he blinked out the window without turning toward the speaker, a tiger distracted by a gnat.
“Contrary to what that bumper sticker says,” I drawled, “it’s not precisely true.”
Carlo finally turned to the class and zeroed in on me. His grin shot to my loins. “Go on,” he said.
“It’s my experience that it takes about a year to catch up with yourself, so you don’t have to worry as long as you keep moving.”
He started blinking again. I expected I was going to be treated to a condescending retort. Then his grin returned. “Who are you?” he asked, emphasis on the “are.”
“My name is Brigid Quinn,” I answered.
“We should speak of this over dinner, Brigid Quinn.”
Most of the students tittered. Tube Top only looked chagrined to have been trumped by an older woman.
“I hardly think that’s appropriate in the middle of class,” I said.
“What the hell,” he had replied. “After this term I’m retiring.” He was a lot more aggressive with me in those days. I was a lot more honest with him until I fell in love on our first date. I’ll recall that date later if I’m feeling a little stronger.
Within the year, I married Carlo DiForenza and moved out of my apartment and into his house north of the city. With a view of the Catalina Mountains out the back window, the house itself had been decorated by Carlo’s Dead Wife Jane in the style of my crazy aunt Josephine—that is to say, red-fringed lamp shades and faux Belgian tapestries with depictions of unicorns. The large backyard had a life-size statue of Saint Francis sitting on a bench. That was all right; I had never decorated any place I’d lived and this fit the kind of person I wanted to be like ready-made slipcovers.
The house came with a set of Pugs, which are sort of a cross between Peter Lorre and a bratwurst. The dogs were given to Carlo by Jane just before her death from cancer five years before; she figured caring for them would give his life purpose after her death. We kept intending to name them.
But the best part of the deal was Carlo.
It, the marriage I mean, all happened so fast I could hear my mother whispering one of her platitudes, “marry in haste; repent at leisure,” but I knew what I wanted. What I actually had I wasn’t quite sure even now, but that meant he hardly knew me, and as I’d never known another way to live I was comfortable with that. One may say this is not the basis for a good relationship, but I’d learned my lesson: keep the violence in the past and focus on learning how to be the ideal wife. Ideal Wife was the woman I would be now.
Carlo took his time as well. He learned not to sneak up and hug me from behind and would place his palm ever so gently on my cheek so I would lean into it instead of tighten. He never tried to pry out of me the reasons for my fight-or-flight behavior, and I was certain he agreed it was best not to know. I was slowly relaxing, learning to trust him, and life was perfect except for those times in the middle of the night when I was overwhelmed by anxiety, when my heart would start to pound in habitual terror that he would leave me, that I would lose everything I had at last found.
That first year we made love, walked his Pugs, seduced each other into our favorite cuisines (him sushi, me Indian), watched movies (I discovered an appreciation for indie mind benders, he for things blowing up), and collected rocks.
I particularly liked the rock hounding. Besides being pretty, rocks don’t change, and they don’t die on you. My best local place for rock hounding was a quiet wash about a half mile down the hill from our house, under a bridge where Golder Ranch Road crossed it. The summer monsoon season, a flooding rain that brought the desert all of its yearly eleven inches within a few short months, tumbled the rocks from the surrounding mountains to gather there.
On the day I’m recalling, in early August, I had walked to the wash by myself, filled my backpack with twenty pounds of anything that looked unusually colorful, and trudged back up the hill, feeling a little woozy with the hundred-degree temperature but glad for the workout.
Soon I sighted our backyard at the eastern edge of the Black Horse Ranch subdivision. We’re a recent anomaly, surrounded by the real desert dwellers. People with horses. People cooking meth in their trailers. When it rained you could smell horse manure, and sometimes trailers blew up.
Does that sound critical? After spending most of my life in urban apartments I actually loved this rural area the way you love a sloppy old uncle who tells good stories from the war. I loved the smell of horse manure, and the occasional bray of a donkey coming from an unknown location when the wind is very still, and the reminiscent bark of gunfire from the direction of the Pima Pistol Club.
But like I said, what I loved most was Carlo. Tall as Lincoln with a slight Italian accent, Roman beak, mournful Al Pacino eyes, and a bad-boy smile to contradict them.
When I lugged the backpack into the kitchen and dumped the rocks in the sink to rinse them, Carlo was making hummingbird juice, mixing water and some strawberry-colored powder. Without my asking him to, he had hung the feeder on the white thorn acacia tree in the front yard where I could watch the hummingbirds from my office window.
The sight of him fixing the feeder for my pleasure made my heart … swell to overflowing is supposed to be a worn-out phrase, but for me it’s a brand-new feeling.
This may seem an unusually strong reaction to a man filling a bird feeder. If you have led a relatively peaceful life you will not appreciate its value and treasure it the way I do, not understand what it feels like to go day after day with that vibration in your chest, as if you carried inside of you a violin string that has just been plucked but now the string is silent and still because the threat of violence is long past.
Now I was living in peace with a man so gentle and sensitive he gave sup to hummingbirds. Does this seem precious? I don’t give a rat’s ass.
“What do you have to give me?” he asked, pouring the juice through a funnel into the clear plastic container. His low voice and the glint in his eye made the question a double entendre.
“Just some pretty rocks, Perfesser. You’ll have to tell me what I have.”
I turned to the sink where I’d dumped the stones, rinsed them off one by one, and placed them still wet on the dark granite counter for Carlo’s examination.
The rinsing heightened the vivid colors, smooth blood red, vanilla ice cream, round and speckled green like a dinosaur egg, silver shot with black specks. We opened the color atlas of minerals in the southwestern United States to see what we had.
Carlo was no more a geologist than I was. Rather, before becoming a philosophy professor, and before marrying Jane, he’d done time as a Roman Catholic priest. Father Dr. Carlo DiForenza could explain either linguistic philosophy or comparative religion so simply a learning-disabled bivalve could understand.
Carlo and I sat side by side on the stools by the breakfast counter where he leaned his gaunt frame over the stones like a giraffe protecting her young. His thin fingers tickled the rocks as he admired each one individually.
“Pudding stone,” Carlo said, pointing out the picture in the book. “See the quartz plugging it? I can imagine the megasurge of heat that boiled the granite into a juice that mixed all these elements together. Then a plunge of temperature that hardened the elements into a single mass with each mineral distinct. Gorgeous, Brigid. Oh, and you found some more shot with copper.”
I squirmed a bit and leaned closer. Plugging, megasurge, plunge, juice, shot—is it just me, or did Carlo talk dirty about a billion years of geologic activity as if they were one hot night of sex? Plus I got a kick out of watching him stroke the rocks.
The geo-erotica started working on us both. We went from stroking the rocks to stroking each other’s fingers stroking the rocks, and I made a lame joke about getting our rocks off and then I started licking his fingers and then Carlo started murmuring Bella, Bella, which is what he calls me when he’s feeling romantic and I didn’t care if he used that so he wouldn’t accidentally call me Jane because I knew in my heart that this time Bella meant me. That’s how it goes when you have a lot of life behind you, no self-delusion.
He didn’t mind that I hadn’t showered yet. We slipped off the stools onto one of Jane’s faux Persian rugs. Turkish. Oriental. Whatever. And kissed. But the Pugs stared, and lovemaking on the floor didn’t have quite the charm it once had. We moved into the bedroom and tossed aside Jane’s pink satin comforter with the blue trim.
The sex was spectacular, but don’t worry about my going into details of the act. You may be younger than I, and won’t like to think about someone outside your generation making love. For you the image may be embarrassing, vulgar, or comic.
Carlo and I were none of those.
While he dozed afterward, as always, in grateful lust I thanked him silently, from the center of my soul, for letting me live in his normal world. For giving me this new self, different from the one defined by any of the other women I had been.
But gratitude for the present invariably came with memories of the past where I’d learned my lessons. One of the things I brooded about: Paul, gentle, widowed Paul of the cello and the truffle oil, of the two cherubic preschoolers, Paul repulsed by me despite his best efforts. As gently as he could even though he thought I couldn’t be hurt, See, Brigid? You stare into the abyss of depravity, and sooner or later it begins to stare back. The abyss is where you’ve lived for so long you’ll never escape it. I fear it too much to live there with you. I can’t expose my children to you.
I was still terrified to think I might destroy my relationship with Carlo the way I had destroyed my relationship with Paul and determined that I would do nothing to make that happen.
Paul was the last man I tried to be honest with, twenty-two years ago. I still wonder what made me leave that crime scene photo on the kitchen counter. I didn’t expect the children would find it.

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This book is fantastic! I enjoy many different styles of writing

This book is fantastic! I enjoy many different styles of writing, but this writer excels at captivating readers with a gripping story and intriguing plot. This is definitely not your run-of-the-mill thriller. The first 60 pages or so are mostly character development, but once you get through them the story really picks up. There were many twists and surprises that kept me turning pages. I truly hope the writer creates more of Brigid's stories and it would be great to have prequels to this story as well. Overall a fantastic read!

5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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wolfie1

Posted March 17, 2013

Wish there were more like this! Smart, not too much of the love

Wish there were more like this! Smart, not too much of the love story just enough,her toughness but vulneralbility were evened out just about perfect!

5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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cohlie

Posted May 24, 2013

Terrific Read!

Finally, a well done portrayal of a heroine who is "of a certain age". She's been there & done it all. Tough and thoroughly engaging, she demonstrates how growing older can open more doors than it closes.

4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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ColoradoHappyHiker

Posted March 26, 2013

This is an exceptional novel! It is a gripping story, speaking

This is an exceptional novel! It is a gripping story, speaking as a professional in forensics for almost 40 years, I cannot poke holes in her science. I've known Becky for a number of years so I really wanted this book to be good, but truly - I could not put it down! Fantastic!

4 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted January 20, 2015

Anonymous

Absolutely, positively one of the best books I've read in a long time! This was a superbly told story, well written, gripping, enthralling from first page to last. WARNING: you won't want to stop reading once you start!

3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted June 9, 2013

I liked it...

It wasn't riveting and at times too predictable. It felt to me like this was a sophomoric effort. I'll give her another try cuz I liked the character.

3 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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Could easily be a movie

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Anonymous

Posted April 3, 2013

Unique

Excellent read . Highly reccomended for those who enjoy both an intelligent and psychological thriller

2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted February 13, 2015

Implausible

Reasonably entertaining read, but much of the book is so implausible that I couldn't take it seriously. Read if you can buy it cheap, otherwise, pass.

1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted February 7, 2015

Loved this writers style

I was totally sucked into the world of this FBI agent. Totally believable characters. and get to the facts of the matter from this very believable heroine. The very honest dialog from the ex-agent and her loving, but confused new husband. Very believable characters. I loved every minute i read this novel.

1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted February 6, 2015

Not high suspense but enjoyable.

It's written in the first person, which I sometimes don't enjoy. I didn't get a real good sense of who Brigid was till towarda the end. But, it was good enough for me to want to read more by this author.

1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted February 6, 2015

Anonymous

Could not get into this book. So boring. Not well written at all.

1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted June 3, 2014

Lish

I LOVED this book!!!! So intense and yet so funny. I was delighted with the main character being smart, strong and a woman with white hair who still 'has it'. Wonderful story!!! Hope Ms. Masterman will write more.......I want another one with Brigid!!!!! LISH

1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted June 8, 2013

Excellet read!

I enjoyed the fact the leading lady is not described as a sexy woman but portrayed a tad more realistic and an older woman! Good mystery!

1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted February 27, 2015

Badly written and slow moving!

A fan of mysteries for over 50 years, I was bored to death by how slowly the p.ot develops. The writing is not concise and have better things to read than subject myself to drivel.

0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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Anonymous

Posted February 20, 2015

well written

I enjoyed this book because it had a good story line and I felt it was well written. The story was a little different than your typical crime solving novel. That's what made it feel new and interesting for me.

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Anonymous

Posted February 18, 2015

Loved

Loved this book. The characters were very real and the story was so good. Loved the author's style

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bookwoman

Posted February 13, 2015

Liked this quite a bit

very good thriller - want to read her other books

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Anonymous

Posted February 4, 2015

I can't wait to read her next book....

Well done!

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Anonymous

Posted January 27, 2015

Great Book

Well written, interesting, cannot wait for the next one :)

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